by Ann Regentin
(06/15/05)

Always, he could tell when she'd been with someone else. He would come home to find her smiling her just-been-loved smile, full of a blissful sweetness tinged with melancholy.

He didn't ask anymore. There was no point. She always had a reason: every one of her lovers needed her, whether for a minute or a month. His wife treated every male emotional affliction, and some physical ones, the same way.

"Why?" he had demanded more than once. "Why do you have to lie with them? Why can't you just...I don't know, talk to them? Something?"

"They need me."

"I'm your husband. I need you."

Her arms twined around his neck. "You have me."

"Except when you're with someone else."

"You're away working then."

"What if I quit, stay home?"

"How would we live?"

"On the beach, maybe. I could give up sculpture and learn to fish."

"You could never give up sculpture." She ran her hand over his chest. "Don't be angry, husband. I love you."

"You make me the laughingstock of the island."

"No," she said, "They envy you. I should know."

The conversation always went the same way, but even with jealousy turning his gut to lead, he responded to her. She'd slide a small hand under his tunic, run it soft and cool over his waist, let her head fall to his shoulder, and sigh. When she'd look up at him, her lips and cheeks would be flushed deep rose. "You're not working now and I'm here. I'm all yours."

He wished more than anything that it was true.

At first, he had attributed it to her innocence. She was childlike in some ways -- and no surprise, since she'd never had a childhood. He explained things to her as gently as he could, but she did it again and again. She never tried to hide it, but she never felt any shame, either, so she didn't see a reason to. She did him the courtesy of bathing before he came home, but she wouldn't stop.

He bought slaves to guard her, but it didn't help. She could talk her way around any of them. Even having children didn't slow her down. They had three, two boys and a little girl who was the spitting image of her mother, but though she assured him otherwise, he couldn't help wondering which of them, if any, were really his.

Once it could no longer be explained away as innocence, he got angry. If she didn't stop, he would leave her, he said, but she wilted in front of him, collapsing to the floor at his feet. She loved him, she would die without him, and her distress was so extreme that he had no choice but to believe her. It took months before she trusted him again, although he pointed out more than once that it was she who needed to prove trust.

"I cook your meals, I clean your house. I sleep in your bed every night," she'd say. "I bear you children. What more do I have to prove?" And she'd start to cry at the mere memory of his threat until he had to pull her close to comfort her.

For a while he was resigned. It was just the way she was. On the plus side, maybe she would give him the same license -- no one would blame him. But, with whom? Even after three children, she was the most beautiful woman on the island, the most interesting, the most desirable. No courtesan could match her. No maiden had half her charms. Young boys dreamed of her; married men would leave their wives in a second for her, so why on earth would he sleep with their girlfriends or wives? That would be pathetic, would be even worse than being the island's most frequent cuckold.

So when he came in that day and saw her smiling, the trailing ends of her hair still wet, he wasn't surprised when a new emotion welled up in him: despair. Every hope he ever had for his marriage crumbled. She would never be faithful. Even when she was an old woman he would come in to see the ghost of another man's kiss playing over her lips. He would be forever wondering about his children, forever aching for that one piece of herself she wouldn't give him. He was faithful. It seemed to him a simple thing. But she wouldn't. She never would.

He listened to the babble of his children as they ate. His wife was a very good mother; whatever other proclivities she had, they didn't take away from how she loved her children. She was a good cook, too; the table was laden with fish, bread, olives and goat cheese prepared by her own hands. His house was well-kept, warm and inviting, and she was good company in the evenings. Sometimes he could lose himself in the domestic routine, in a kind of self-inflicted amnesia, but not that night. Who? he wondered, looking at her. Who was it this time?

That night he wanted to refuse her, but he couldn't. It would hurt her terribly, and the truth was, it would hurt him, too. He loved her, in spite of everything; he wanted her, and it was always, always good.

Afterward, he lay for hours in darkness, silent tears creeping down into his hair. The shadows cast by the moon drifted slowly across the room; he stopped counting his wife's breaths when he ran out of numbers.

After a while, he got up, carefully, trying not to disturb her.

"Where are you going?" she whispered.

"The temple," he said, although in truth, he had no destination in mind.

She rolled to her side, her arm stretched out over his side of the bed. "Don't be long."

"I won't."

But perhaps the temple wasn't a bad idea. There weren't many other possibilities that time of night. It beat, at least for the now, the ocean, though drowning himself had crossed his mind more than once. But he knew that wouldn't end his misery. Even condemned to Tartarus, he'd still love her. The thought of her remarrying was more than he could bear.

In the moonlight, the Temple of Aphrodite seemed vaster than it really was, a gateway to another world; it took him a few deep breaths before he went inside. A life-sized statue of the goddess stood in the very center of the room. He had not carved it; it had stood in the temple when his father was a boy. He could do better.

He had tried once, had created his own vision of Aphrodite, and it had proved to be the greatest mistake of his life.

He stood, paralyzed by indecision. There was nothing for him here. He was out of useful prayers, but there was no point in going home, either, so after a while he rolled himself in his cloak and curled up on the floor, not really expecting or hoping for sleep.

It came anyway, and with it came a dream...of Aphrodite.

She came and sat beside him on the marble floor and stroked his hair until he woke, or thought he woke. When she smiled, he felt his cares lift away like fog in sunlight.

Then she kissed him.

The caress of her tongue was a key that opened the darkest corners of his heart. He felt every demon set free. She took his fears from him, replacing them with a peace he hadn't known in years.

She lay beside him to run delicate fingers over his neck, and she smiled as his work-hardened hands made free with her soft skin. The linen she wore fell from her shoulders under his touch, revealing warm, fragrant flesh. She carried the scent of flowers, and ocean, and the unmistakable musk of woman's desire. It went straight to his phallus, making his need for her as elemental as his need to breathe. She laughed lightly into his mouth; she seemed to revel in what she could do to him.

He ran his hand over every curve of her and was struck with sudden remembrance: he had modeled his wife after the goddess. It had been conscious creation, not a vagary of chance. Still, Aphrodite was not his wife, just as his wife, beautiful beyond reckoning, was not really the goddess. Alike as twins, they were different as twins. And his wife was a mortal woman: she was aging. He hadn't realized it, hadn't seen the steady progression of life until he held the inspiration in his arms.

His wife had been the only woman he'd ever deemed worthy of love, created in the image of the Goddess of Love herself, female perfection incarnate. No troublesome, quarreling, mortal woman could match her. When he decided to bring her beauty down to Earth, he put every dream of her, everything he had, into the purest, most flawless marble he could find. Then, finished, he'd spent hours running his hands in caress over those cold, smooth curves, never daring to hope that even the statue would touch him in turn, much less the goddess. Now she touched him everywhere, her hands warming him to his bones, heating his testicles to a tense, delighted boil.

He kissed his way from breast to breast, rolling her two perfect nipples under his tongue, feeling them wrinkle in response. He let his hand go over her soft belly to her sex, felt a wetness there that set his head to reeling. He had to stop, gasping, as she stroked him, calming him, but not too much, not more than pleased her. He had to stop, gasping, as she stroked his hair, calming him -- but not too much.

She was like his wife in every way, exactly like her, and it made it easy to please her. He pushed two of his hard, sculptor's fingers into her and inhaled her high moan. His thumb slid through her slippery folds, looking for the pearl at the heart of the oyster. Moan turned to cry as he found it, and muscles deep inside her clenched hard around his fingers. He put a steady, rhythmic pressure on her clit and watched as her breasts flushed as dark, as she started to tremble.

He nearly came with her. When it was over he was aching with a delicious tension that would turn to pain if left neglected -- but it wouldn't be. That night his oldest, fondest desire awaited him.

He had all the time he needed. Time to laugh with her, to nuzzle her nose, to bite her neck, to press his body tight to hers and make circles with his cock inside her in the way his wife loved...and yes, she loved it, too. She was about to come again and this time he would go with her, all the way to the bottom of the ocean that birthed her.

When he recovered, he lifted his head and kissed her. "Thank you," he said.

She smiled.

"Far be it from me to be ungrateful," he went on. "But why?"

She ran a finger over his cheekbone. "I thought you should know what it feels like."

It hit him suddenly: he was someone else's husband -- and she was someone else's wife. He felt the blood drain from his face. "I'm sorry!" It came out as a croak. "I'm so sorry." Then he was angry. "Why? Goddess, why do this to me? You knew, you must have known...."

"I knew," she said. "That's why."

"What does this mean to you?"

"What does it mean to you?"

Here he was, living the wrong side of his personal nightmare, when two minutes before he'd felt whole, as he had not in so long. In the arms of the goddess, who he was was finally enough.

"Do you see?" Aphrodite asked.

"Is that why they come to her?"

"Yes. That's why I came to you. I can give you that peace. And she can give it, too."

"Your husband," he said, thinking of Hephaistos, the crippled smith god. "How does he feel?"

"He doesn't mind," she said.

"How can he not mind?"

"He doesn't want me." There was no pain in her voice, only humor.

"How could he not want you?"

"Think about it, Pygmalion."

It came to him in a rush. "He prefers men?"

"Yes. He loves me though, he really does, and his preference means that he can love all of me without pain."

"I can't do that." Pygmalion shook his head. "I need her too much."

"I'm so sorry."

"Why?"

"I was cruel to you that day," she said. "I should have turned you into a statue as you requested, but I wanted to see...I wanted to see if it was possible. You swore you loved me, and I wanted to believe you, so I made her just like me in every way but one. She's mortal. Otherwise, though, she's me, and that was unfair. I shouldn't have done that to you."

He took her in his arms. "Goddess. I've failed you."

"No," she said. "You're still with her."

Tears filled his eyes. "She won't be faithful. Why does she do this to me?"

"She doesn't do it to you," the goddess said. "She does it because she is love, and love cannot be bound. She goes where she is needed, as I did tonight."

"That's different," he said. "Your husband is --"

"Not the man I would have married had I chosen with my heart," she said. "I married Hephaistos because I knew he could live with me -- and he needed a wife as much as I needed a husband. I love elsewhere."

"Why did you have to marry at all?" he asked.

"Think about it," she said.

He didn't need to. He knew the answer because he knew his own wife. If she hadn't married him someone would have gotten hurt, perhaps many someones. Galatea was the sort of woman men killed for. "Does she really care about me?"

"Of course." Aphrodite said. "For others, she is there when they truly need her, but for you, she is there always. Is she not?"

She was. No matter where she went, she was always there when he was home. "What do they think of me?" he asked.

"Her lovers? That you're the luckiest man in the world. Every one of them wishes to be you."

"They have no idea," Pygmalion said.

"I know."

He lay looking at Aphrodite, at her face, ageless, exactly as he had sculpted her ten years before. Had it really been that long? It seemed twice that, three times, and there were many years left. He would be married to Galatea for all of them. The idea was unbearable.

"Is there anyone else you would prefer?" the goddess asked.

"No." How could there be?

"I'm so sorry," Aphrodite said. "I gave a mortal man a test that no god could pass. It was vain and foolish of me."

"No," he said. "I asked for it. But what does she want from me?"

"She wants what you want. She wants to be loved as she is."

"I don't think I can do that." In truth, he didn't think he could stop, and that was what was killing him.

"Love requires sacrifice," she said. "I should know."

"But she gives up nothing."

The goddess raised an elegant eyebrow. "You think not?"

"I give everything," Pygmalion said, "and she will not give what I want most."

"She can't," Aphrodite corrected him sharply. "She cannot stop loving others just because she loves you best. She's not capable of it."

"She doesn't seem to be capable of sacrifice, either," he snapped.

"Then you don't know your wife nearly as well as you think." The goddess sighed and rose. "I have to go, Pygmalion. I was so flattered by your art that I wasn't thinking clearly. I would undo it if I could, but I can't. I'm sorry."

He watched her dress, tears streaming down his cheeks. She had doomed him to an eternity of pain. "Goddess," he blurted suddenly, "my children. Are they...?"

Aphrodite looked at him for a long time. "Yes," she answered finally. "They are yours."

"All of them?"

"Yes."

"Does she know?"

"Of course she does. That's the sacrifice she makes for you."

Pygmalion stared, his mind spinning, but then he remembered. The goddess was a mother many times over, by many different men. "How can she be sure?" he asked.

"I told you," the goddess said. "She is just like me in every way but one. She can be quite sure."

"Is it really that hard for her?" he asked.

Aphrodite lost her temper. "Is it hard for her? I don't know how she does it! One of the reasons I married Hephaistos is because I didn't think I could."

"Why not?"

"Pygmalion, she is love. Her nature is to give. Everything. For her to refuse anyone is agony, because she's refusing herself. If it were up to her, she would have had many more babies, and not just by you. Did it never occur to you to wonder why, in ten years, you have had only three children?"

It had, although he had usually assumed that she could not have many children. In his darkest moods he believed that he could not father children and that without her infidelity they would have no family at all. But each of his children had come only after he'd wondered aloud to his wife, usually after a particularly delicious night, if the gods would see fit to bless them again. The possibility that it might have been cause and effect had never crossed his mind.

Still. "If she can do that, why can't she --?"

"No!" the goddess snapped, and in her anger she was terrifying, more beautiful and more dangerous than any wild beast. "Don't think for a second that she doesn't feel your ingratitude. That hurts her more than anything."

Then Aphrodite's face softened. "Goodbye, Pygmalion. She was the loveliest of statues. I'm sorry that I have rewarded you so poorly."

He watched her go, fading into the night, and then his eyes opened for real. He sat up, stiff and shivering in the cool of early morning. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, filling the temple with a rosy glow. He rubbed at his eyes, blinking, trying to think what to do next.

He would go home. There was no place else he could go.

Still, it took every bit of strength he had just to get to his feet; his legs felt weak as a newborn goat's. He staggered to the door of the temple and looked over the town. In their house at the crest of the hill, his wife was waking alone for the first time since she'd come to life. He wondered how it felt to her.

She had never done the same, never left him to wake alone. More tears prickled the corners of his eyes. He pressed them back with his thumbs as he made his way down the temple steps. A stray dog ran for cover, the aroma of fresh cheese rolls crept through the air, and a mallet struck wood somewhere in the far distance. It was late enough: he could simply go to work. But no. His wife would be worried sick by now. He had to tell her that he was all right.

The luckiest man in the world set off down the road toward hill and home.

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